


Lost Love Recovered

by mangacrack



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Himring, Jealousy, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 19:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30060537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangacrack/pseuds/mangacrack
Summary: Even the most beautiful places turn dark during the night. Maedhros deals with Maglor's absence as well as he is able to.
Relationships: Finrod Felagund | Findaráto/Maglor | Makalaurë (mentioned), Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë, Maedhros | Maitimo/Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	Lost Love Recovered

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the **FEANORIAN WEEK 2021**. It is not finished yet, but please enjoy the fic.

It had been an entire year since he has seen Makalaurë. 

The thought comes to Maedhros as he camps out with a troop of soldiers at the foot of the mountains. Himring towers above him. Strong and unyielding like a stern taskmaster. Snow and ice still hold the fortress in a tight grip while the rivers on another side of the camp have doubled in size. The snowmelt is strong this year. 

Maedhros wades through puddles among the wet grass. His high, expensive boots keep his feet dry. It is early morning and grey clouds engulf the sky. They have been dealing with overcast weather for weeks and his longing to see the sun is as strong as the wish to see his brother return. 

The wind is bone-chilling. Maedhros fights against the breeze. The low hills around them barely protect the camp from the north winds. 

"I do not understand how Makalaurë could choose such a life," Maedhros curses. His attempts to get the strands out of his face fail miserably. 

He greets the guards at the gates with a nod. Mithdíniath is a small village in Himring's long shadows. It is the only fortified settlement Makalaurë uses, mostly to store supplies and keep his horses safe in the harsh winters. Maedhros thinks it is foolish. He would build Maglor a gate, a defence equal to doors of Angband which would connect Himring with Mount Rerir. His brother only smiled and refused. 

_'Wind and weather keep more Orcs away than stone ever would,'_ he had said. Over the years, Maedhros learned to see the benefits of the Gap. 

He even grew accustomed to the endless rain. 

Maglor's absence he would never get used to. It was not often his brother left his lands. The furthest he travelled was when he took his horses down south and met with Ambarussa at Sarn Athrad, the Dwarf Road coming from Nogrod. 

Irritated, Maedhros' gaze finds the south again. He yearns for the sight of his brother more than he wishes for the sun. It is too early, though. Spring is still far away, a journey from Nargothrond at this point irresponsible. There is also no guarantee that Maglor will return this year. 

A pit worse than the hunger he felt on top of the Thangorodrim opens up in his stomach. He promised Maglor three years. A reward for his exceptional duty and willingness to defend the March whenever Maedhros was away. 

His own journeys to Hithlum always proved to be a strain on Maglor. While Himring was in capable hands, no matter if Maedhros resided inside or not, governing East Beleriand alone is a thankless task. 

As Maedhros enters the town hall, returning from his early morning walk to clear his thoughts, he admits the burden of ruling has never fallen on his shoulders without Maglor within immediate reach. 

_I should take his journey as a sign he deems me healthy enough to be left alone,_ Maedhros broods. That does not mean that he is happy with the situation. 

Inside the town hall, he breathes out in relief when he notices two Elves from the south. They must have arrived last night, send up by Ambarussa. A ritual that repeats every year as soon as the weather allows it. A pair of scouts, often young warriors braving the journey after the turn of the year for the first time. It was regarded as a bad sign if they had to return because the plane is impassable and the River Gelion was too wide and deep to be crossed. 

"Good Morning, welcome in the north," Maedhros greets the boys. "I am pleased to see you." 

The boys looked up at him and beamed with pride. Maedhros commended them and asked about the fords his brothers build along the rivers. The scouts were early this year. A good sign, it left them a time frame to prepare soldiers and horses. 

Orcs rarely tried to cross the Gap in winter. The storms are too harsh. 

_I will not be able to rely on Cáno's songs this year,_ Maedhros thinks in grim dismay. His brother often used his talent to craft traps and mazes of wind and fog in the March, fortifying a natural defence that left the Orcs wandering around helplessly in Lothlann. 

* * *

  
  


Spring comes and distracts Maedhros from looking south. He has tasks he can throw himself at. Amras appears at the horizon with fresh troops and relieves those of duty who served their term. Oropher's warriors look at the boats vary the Fëanorians use to sail down the Gelion but since it cuts down travel time to a third, they do not complain. Maedhros thanks the captain and negotiates the terms for a new patch of archers. He is glad the Silvan and the Avari support them and the trade is a welcome side-effect. 

Captain Nyéna arrives in time to discuss the plans for this year. They debated back and forth last year if strengthening the troops would make the Orcs suspicious. With Maglor's absence, they need to be careful. His brother is a capable and frightening warrior. Maedhros knows he can hold the Gap by himself, it will be just a lot harder than usual. 

Maglor built his realm under the swollen open sky. When the sun returns after weeks of snow and rain, it finally feels wide and open again. It is larger, greater than the leagues defining in on the map. 

The people are self-sufficient and well-organized. Their sole existence lays in the defense of the realm. There are years where the soldiers have to occupy themselves with singing and breeding horses. In others, they barely find the time to hunt and have to rely on the food supplies from Amon Ereb. 

Like every year, Curufin has been busy over the winter. He forged new swords, lances, and spears. Celegorm arrives with wagons with new weapons that will be stored in the depth of Himring's mountains. 

Last year, Maglor left with the Silvan warriors. 

Maedhros pretended up until the last moment that the dreadful day of Maglor's departure would never come. He watched him leave, in the end, without uttering a word. His brother deserves a break from the horrors of war. 

Finrod would take good care of him. He would order the best food, take him out to pleasant trips and offer him the best plays in the theatre he finished a decade ago. 

Each letter he receives, Maedhros opens with trembling hands. His pulse skyrockets with each scroll hailing from Nargothrond or Hithlum, fearing it announces that Maglor is not going to return. That he had fallen in love with the peaceful lands of West Beleriand. That he had enough and no longer wished to bleed for a hopeless war instead of pursuing his true talents. 

The Gap is exhausting to live in. Unlike his brothers, Maglor had no home to return to. He had no door he could close. Instead, he lived in tents and spent most of his time on horseback. The days are seldom pleasant. The land has a way to fray your nerves. It takes your voice and plays with the mind until even the sunniest dream turns into a nightmare. 

Experienced travellers avoided the marches between the Little and Greater Gelion. On the map, East Beleriand is an empty patch between Doriath and the Blue Mountain. Its inhabitants know better. 

"You look morose, Nelyo," Celegorm laughs and pats him on the back. "If you keep frowning like this, your face gets stuck. You won't make a pretty sight. Just think what Makalaurë would say." 

The winds across the plain, tearing at the tents bolted into the ground and sends ripples across the puddles. There is not way to cramp diginity into the camp. Mud plashes upwards with every step and Maedhros stopped trying to clean his boots. He tries to not show his displeasure that Celegorm knows him so well. 

It fits the atmosphere that Sargeant Edaukin dresses down two warriors she caught passed out, drunk, in the middle of the day. 

"He will be back," Maedhros growls more to himself than to Celegorm. "I should be glad that he is no longer hovering over my shoulder." 

It is a bold lie. Without Makalaurë's brutal tenancy Maedhros would not have made it far after his rescue. Love and guilt drove his brother as he bullied him back onto his feet. There was no time to wallow in misery. Instead, Maglor introduced him to a rigorous training regime. At the end of the day, Maedhros was too exhausted to think about his condition or the events leading up to it. 

Today, he is grateful that Makalaurë dragged him out of the bed. Though, Maedhros kicked and screamed, cursed his brother's name for years. 

Celegorm's amused expression has not vanished yet. 

"I admit it is easier when Cáno is around to bother us." Maedhros sighs. 

Rumours have it that only he can control the horde of Fëanor's children when they come together. None of these claims adheres to the fact that Maedhros cannot govern East Beleriand, wage a war against Morgoth,  _and_ handle the politics involving close and distant kin. 

Fighting the war he shares with Makalaurë. They split wrangling their brothers and their cousins between them. Maedhros chose the latter because he still holds some authority and respect over his kin, especially his younger cousins and their followers. 

Makalaurë prefers political background. Maedhros uses him when he needs a distraction. 

Cáno is good at dazzling people. They fall over themselves to praise his voice, his music, his talent to weave chords together. And that's before they see him dance. Or fight. 

Or laugh. 

This year the spring is cold. The horses around them munch on the fresh green grass and wide-eyed young warriors are in awe of the mountains around them. Maedhros stalks across the fields, wet halms brush against his boots and he tries to focus on his surroundings. 

Nothing helps. Each breath in his lungs makes missing Makalaurë worse. 

One late evening Maedhros ties his hair into a new braid. It has gotten long in the last year and without Makalaurë there is no around to regularly brush it. He never had the patience for it. It is a trait he inherited from his parents who were too busy to waste time on hair and skincare. 

"Come back, Cáno," Maedhros murmurs over the voice of a foreign bard. The Elf entertains the new recruits as they sit around the campfire. 

The atmosphere feels wrong without Maglor next to him. They should be sitting here, laughing and drinking. Maedhros would scare the new recruits until Cáno is laughing so hard, he cannot sit straight anymore. In all his life, Maedhros has never seen anything more beautiful than Maglor's face when he laughs freely. 


End file.
